


The Dragon Maiden

by SLq



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Arranged Marriage, Assassins & Hitmen, Dragons, F/F, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, Fantasy, Gay, Humor, M/M, Original Slash, Princes & Princesses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-18 08:38:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7307950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLq/pseuds/SLq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Simon has been engaged to a man. It is all his sister's fault for getting kidnapped by a dragon. Also his fiance's fault for being a slut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Not so long ago, in a land quite close by, there was a kingdom of incomprehensible wonder. It boasted vast lands and proud mountains and truly sturdy cows –all of life’s important things. But those are not the things of legend and, indeed, were not the reason of the kingdom’s fame. No, the wonder of the Kingdom of Mira lay in its rulers, for a more wondrous bunch had never before been seen in one place.

The King of Mira was a tad bit silly and the Queen quite a bit mad – as God intended for all in such a taxing situation (marriage, that is). They lived among riches and slightly inbred nobility in their high-walled castle, drinking the days away. Their subjects respected them from afar (since they would not do so if they were near), and their enemies (being even farther) shivered in fear at attacking such well-loved rulers.

The King and Queen had one daughter – Princess Leona, the future diamond of Mira. Unfortunately for her nurses, diamonds take a long, long time to sparkle and at five Princess Leona was still very much a lump of grimy coal. Endearing statements such as, “Do not ride the dog, your Highness!” and, “Worms are not spaghetti!” followed in the Princess’ wake like the fragrance of roses (which happened very occasionally and only if the Princess had chosen to play war in her mother’s favorite garden). Thus, it was with great joy that the Queen learned of the birth of a Prince in the neighboring Kingdom of Swan.

“It’s either a husband or a dragon,” the Queen said, watching her daughter scale the royal drapery, “I won’t make it through her puberty.”

“Hm,” said the King, mostly to cover up the fact that he had not been aware of the Princess’ existence until about three and a half minutes ago. He winced as the child fell into a heap of blue drapes and torn clothing, managing to injure three attendants and brain her nurse in the process. The Queen turned a knowing glare in his direction and the king promptly dispatched a messenger to the neighboring kingdom.

King Alfred of the Kingdom of Swan arrived the very next week and the two set out to draw plans of their joined futures.

“Why must my kingdom’s colors be red and white?” complained King Alfred of Swan, staring morosely into the depths of his eleventh goblet of wine, “I hate red. Makes me look fat. Also, children follow me around and ask for presents come winter.”

“Change them, then. Blue would suit your eyes.” King John of Mira nodded sagely, then forgot to lift his head and fell asleep in his goblet.

“Want my daughter?” King John asked once he had been successfully rescued from drowning in his wine by one of his attendants. “We don’t really need her.”

“Maybe.” King Alfred said. “Might be good for uh, something. How old is she?”

“I don’t know, but she is about the size of a sheep,” answered King John, and reached for his goblet. An attendant slapped his hand away. King John pouted.

“Well, my boy is a bit young,” King Alfred said, stroking his white beard in thought.

“He was born ten days ago,” aided King John.

“Right,” agreed King Alfred, forgetting again almost immediately, “Well, that’s not good! Your daughter will be an old maid by the time he is marriage-able.”

“Hmm, that is true.” King John thought and thought, fell asleep and thought some more. “Let’s marry him to my next one, then!” he proclaimed, feeling very triumphant with his solution. He might have possibly forgotten the point of the meeting.

“Your next what?” asked King Alfred, not so much suspicious as confused; several hours had passed.

“Child,” said King John.

“Sure.” agreed King Alfred, “But what will you do with this one?” King John shrugged.

“Someone will kidnap her sooner or later. She is a Princess, after all.”

Happy, the two rulers toasted and passed out in their kingly chairs. The servants took that as their cue to close the meeting for cleaning.

 

* * *

The very next day, a document of most binding and royal significance was drawn, signed, and read by both kings to a joyous congregation of peasants. As it happened, Princess Leona had been abducted by a passing dragon the day prior (possibly during that most important meeting), so even the Queen celebrated the happy occasion.

 

* * *

Many years passed, uneventful. The Queen and King lived in relative peace in their respective wings of the castle. They were a bit troubled in trying to evade the increasingly desperate attempts on the side of a certain dragon to parley for the return of their daughter. The dragon eventually gave up flying menacingly over the battlements, although its mournful cries were still heard on clear nights. The Princess was evidently doing well.

On the seventeenth-year anniversary of the Princess’ abduction, the King organized a large mourning feast. It was decided the feast would be a mourning one the day of, since the King had not been aware of the date’s significance. Nonetheless the decorations were quite tasteful – the yellow tablecloths and rainbow banners had been exchanged for black brocade and dried flowers with commendable haste – and the guests were properly somber. Several even wept, albeit that was likely due to the ale. It was pretty good ale.

“How is May?” asked King Alfred, decked out in blue and white. King John thought he rather looked like a whale but said nothing for the sake of inter-kingdom peace.

“For what?” he asked instead, and sloshed some wine around in his goblet. A visiting noble had been in the habit of doing so, and King John had found it rather tasteful. The laundry maid was of a different opinion, but who asked her anyway.

“For the wedding, of course.” King Alfred laughed and clapped a large hand against King John’s shoulder. “My son turned seventeen. He can finally marry your daughter!”

“Um,” said King John, then looked around. The Queen was nowhere to be seen, so he was left to blunder through his confusion on his own. Bravely, of course. “I think she was kidnapped by a dragon. A long time ago.”

“Not that one,” King Alfred waved the thought away, impatient, “The other one!”

“Oh, yes,” said King John, vaguely remembering being told of the birth of his second child. Only child now, maybe. The dragon had been suspiciously silent lately. “Well, sure then. May is as fine as any other month.”

“Excellent,” said King Alfred, then strode away in a rather hurried manner. Unfortunately for him, Queen Beatrice – his beloved wife – had already spotted him and was moving in his direction with more ferocity than one would expect from someone of her tiny stature. King John recalled a scandal involving a maid and stockings and politely turned away from the resulting brawl.

“Dear?”

Queen Victoria intercepted King John's route of retreat, a wide smile on her powder-drowned face. “Yes, my darling?” asked the King, an unpleasant anxiousness building in his stomach at the prospect of having to endure pleasantries from his wife for the rest of the evening. Usually all he had to endure were a few plates thrown at him from across the table. A whole night of _this_ might just kill him.

“You did not happen to see Simon anywhere, did you?” Queen Victoria asked, her smile becoming even sunnier. Terror squeezed the King’s chest.

“Simon?” King John said. “Who is Simon?” A wonderful thought struck him. “Are you having an affair?”

“No,” Queen Victoria scoffed, and ouch, her fingernails were sharp around his arm. Her smile held, however strained, and King John suddenly became aware of the herd of golden-haired maidens huddled around his wife. “I was simply hoping to introduce Prince Simon, _our son_ , to these fine young ladies. But I see you have not –Oh!” the Queen suddenly broke away. King John swore he heard his shirtsleeves rip beneath her talons. “Simon! Simon, over here dear!”

Several paces away a youth of about sixteen turned at the Queen’s voice, paled, then smartly swiveled on his heel and made a break for the gardens.

“Not this time,” Queen Victoria muttered. “Hold this!” she snapped at King John, pushing a pair of pink heels into his arms. The Queen then gathered her heavy skirts in both hands, curtsied the startled maidens, and sprinted after her terrified son like a hound from hell after a particularly tasty rabbit. “Simon, darling, wait! Mommy just wants to talk to you!”

King John shuddered, clutching the discarded footwear. Another thought, much less pleasant than the first, had him blinking owlishly in the direction his wife had disappeared. He looked at the shoes, towards the garden, then at King Alfred’s tear-stained face (his wife also had very sharp nails) a few paces away.

“No worries, I am sure I have another child,” King John told his attendant. The man bowed and said, “Of course, Sire,” in a most dispassionate voice.

 

* * *

“No.” Queen Victoria did not bother to look up from their discouragingly green dinner. King John pushed a piece of broccoli around in his own plate, wondering why he had to diet along with her. He liked himself fat. It gave him character.

“Are you sure?” he glanced at Prince Simon. The youth was moodily munching on a piece of lettuce further down the table where he, apparently, had been sitting for the last sixteen years. The King resolved to limit his drinking. At some future point to be determined at a later date. Prince Simon threw King John an evil look and stabbed a tomato with unnecessary violence. “He might be a Princess. You know kids these days – could be a phase or something.”

“A phase of having a penis?” the Queen scoffed. Both King and Prince turned red and coughed loudly for a rather long time. “No, you will simply have to write Alfred of your stupidity and drop the matter.”

King John sighed heavily and threw one more hopeful look at Prince Simon. Upon finding him still very much male and clutching the butter knife meaningfully, the King sighed again and motioned for a scribe.

 

* * *

The reply came the very next afternoon, in the shape of King Alfred perched on a miserable-looking horse. The king was red in the face and panted as if the horse had ridden him all the way across the border instead of the other way around.

The guards made all haste in helping King Alfred dismount (mostly out of pity for the horse), then led the distraught ruler into the Great Hall. King John, not expecting the visit, was otherwise engaged (sleeping) and almost fell out of his throne (upon waking) in surprise at seeing his heaving friend.

“Alfred! By God, what is the matter?”

“It’s awful!” cried King Alfred, collapsing in a chair an aide helpfully supplied, “War, John! War!”

“With whom?” asked King John, sympathetic. Wars were a lot of work – main reason his own foreign policy was so peaceful.

King Alfred lifted a heavy hand and pointed at King John. “You! Do you know what you have done, John? She is going to rip off my head with her bare hands, she will!”

“Me?” the King pointed at himself, eyes wide. “What did I do?”

“The marriage!” King Alfred slumped in his chair, tired of all the activity that had been forced on him today. “The marriage, John! What are we supposed to do with James now?”

“Your son?” King John guessed.

“Yes, my son!” bellowed King Alfred, neck a healthy red. He quickly ran out of steam and slapped two large hands over his face. King John remembered the party of a few days ago and winced, hoping the other king would not start crying. “She’s going to murder me!” King Alfred moaned instead, much to King John’s relief.

“It will be alright, Alfred,” soothed King John, “Just find another princess for him to marry.”

“There are no other princesses!” sobbed King Alfred. King John sighed and lifted himself off the throne to go and pat his friend’s shoulder. “That idiotic son of mine has… _despoiled_ every princess in travelable radius!”

“Well, a Count’s daughter, perhaps…” King John supplied helpfully.

“Count? _Count_?” King Alfred’s laughter was a tad bit hysterical. “I’d be lucky to find a _merchant_ in this land whose daughter he hasn’t tumbled! And now you tell me there is no princess—” King Alfred broke off with a pitiful moan and buried his head in his arms.

“I do have a son,” said King John, mostly in defense.

King Alfred stopped sobbing. Indeed, he halted all movement that wasn’t breathing. Slowly, he raised his head and looked at King John, desperation shining in blood-shot eyes.

“Well,” he said. “Well.”

In the distance, a dragon’s roar shook the mountains.

 

* * *

Prince Simon was having a pretty average day.

He had woken around dawn to his mother dumping a sack of perfume-heavy letters over his bed – he, of course, being still in it. How she kept getting through the chains, he had no clue.

After dressing and gleefully burning all of the day’s correspondence, the Prince had made his way to the Armory, intent on working off his ire on the Royal Knights. Of these Mira boasted two, both about fifty years too old to hold a sword. Upon entering the dilapidated shack that also doubled as a granary, Prince Simon was immediately made aware of two things: one, they were down to one knight – either that or Sir George was so good of a soldier he slept with his eyes open; and two, his sword was most definitely missing. The second observation was quite easy to make, since Prince Simon’s sword and chainmail were about the only things in the Armory. Prince Simon decided the crime was an insult to his honor and thus needed immediate attention, even if said attention came at the expense of his French lessons. Especially if it came at the expense of his French lessons. And if the matter stretched into violin recital well, vengeance came at a price.

The Quest of the Sword ended unexpectedly at about noon, in the kitchens, where the Prince decided to stop for a lunch break. Both French and violin had been evaded, and he was starting to feel pretty lenient towards the unknown burglar. As luck would have it, it was the exact moment he gave up looking for his sword that the thing materialized out of thin air.

“Marie, what is it that you are cutting the salami with?”

Well, maybe not thin air.

Marie apologized profusely and handed the sword back, smelling vaguely of innards. Apparently all the kitchen knives were too dull and Tommy was too lazy to sharpen them. The Prince was more intrigued by the ease with which Marie handled the heavy blade. Cooking apparently did good things for upper-body strength. Maybe it was all the pig-gutting.

Prince Simon spent the afternoon doing Princely-things, which for the most part constituted of dodging the rest of his tutors. He did spend some time at the pond in the Royal Gardens, looking for mermaids. Disappointingly, only a few kappa swam around in the clear water, and those were so disconcertingly polite and green even boredom could not keep him lingering for long. The forced pleasantries in the face of strange creatures reminded the Prince too much of the various social functions he was dragged to every odd month. He spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between climbing and falling off trees.

All too soon the evening bells echoed in the courtyard. The Prince regarded the clock tower with despair. Another meal enduring his mother’s matchmaking and the King’s drunken stupor did not warrant much excitement. Perhaps he was not truly their son. He could have been switched with Mira's true prince at birth. His real parents could be dirt-poor farmers. It happened.

The thought comforted Prince Simon all the way to the Great Hall. Then nothing much could comfort him at all.

 

* * *

“I am not a princess.” Prince Simon took care to enunciate, for it must be a problem with language. Possibly with the air. Most definitely with the King’s head.

The King still looked vaguely mistrusting, but nodded. “That’s alright.”

“No,” Prince Simon said slowly, “it is not.” He turned to the Queen, who was angrily sticking pieces of paper into golden-tinted envelopes. “Mother, tell him it is not.”

“It really isn’t,” she snapped back. The candlelight glinted off her nails as she snatched yet another sheet from a pile on the chair beside her, eyes so narrowed and dark they seemed the slits of a great lizard. The Prince had never found her more beautiful. His relief was much too short-lived, however, for the Queen brusquely continued with, “But the agreement has been signed and blessed and sworn upon various mothers’ graves, so it is happening anyway.”

The Prince held onto reason and tried not to weep. The King was one thing; him he could avoid until either the issue or the Prince’s existence was forgotten. Queen Victoria, however, had spent not an inconsiderable amount of her life dealing with an evil step-mother. Prince Simon had never had the pleasure of meeting the woman, seeing as she had been ceremonially beheaded for witchcraft before he had been born, but her deeds filled not a small portion of the Royal Library: most often found under “witches,” “monsters,” and lest be forgotten, “vengeful bitches.” Prince Simon had added the last category himself; a surprising amount of folklore fit under the heading.

Point being, the Queen got things _done_.

“Look,” Prince Simon tried again, stepping closer to the table but mindful to stay clear of his mother’s range of motion. “I understand some sort of agreement was made. But I am not a princess. I cannot marry a prince.” He carded his fingers through his hair, twisting them a little so it hurt. “Why is no one getting this?”

“Oh, _I_ get it,” his mother scoffed and slapped another envelope onto the table. The Prince was rather horrified to see _You are cordially invited to_ inked on it in loopy golden script. There were very many, many envelopes and _dear God, this is happening_.

“No, no you do not _seem_ to get it, because oh my God, those are wedding invitations, why are there wedding invitations?” wide-eyed, Prince Simon grasped the King by the elbows. “Father, I _promise_ you I am _not_ a princess, I will drop my trousers right here and prove it!”

The King shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, eyes everywhere but on his son’s frantic face. Behind them, the Queen let out a put-upon sigh.

“Pants stay on in the dining room.” She motioned with her hand, letting a nearby maid scoop the pile of letters onto a silver tray and cart them off to places unknown. Probably the pits of hell from whence they came. Prince Simon shuddered and turned pleading eyes to his mother and set to _beg_.

“I know I have not been very good with the princesses and the burning of their overly-perfumed letters and the running, I know, I promise I will try harder, just please don’t do this. There is no need to go to such lengths! I get it, I will shape up – lesson learned!” he let out a strained chuckle, quickly smothered to silence by his mother’s unimpressed look.

“Oh, darling, it is much too late for that. Sixteen years too late, to be precise.” She glared at King John, the heat of her stare burning all along Prince Simon’s left shoulder. “Nothing can be done about it now; a wedding was promised, and a wedding must be delivered.”

Prince Simon’s devastated face must have brought out some motherly sympathy at last, for the Queen set aside talons and glare and tried to comfort her son. Attempting to find an expression suitable to the occasion, her face went through a complicated transmutation and finally settled on a smile that bore an eerie resemblance to that found on a crocodile about to swallow a duckling.

Prince Simon’s bottom lip trembled.

“But I have a penis,” was his last pitiful attempt at logic. The Queen patted him consolingly on the cheek while the King glanced doubtfully at his lower half.

The Prince, quite reasonably, sat down on the spot and wept.


	2. Chapter 2

“Why do I have to meet him? I don’t want to meet him. I don’t want to ever hear of him again, in fact,” Prince Simon grouched. His mother, busy straightening his shirt and trousers, swatted him quiet.

“Do not whine, Simon, it is unbecoming,” she scolded, pulling so hard on the legs of his trousers that they slipped slightly down his ass. “You should be excited to meet your future spouse.”

“Ha.” Prince Simon wheezed; his mother had moved onto tightening the ceremonial sash around his waist. He had obviously tied it wrong the first time around, seeing he had been able to _breathe_ then. “ _Excited_ isn’t the word I’d use.”

“But it _will_ be the word you use while Prince James is here,” the Queen fixed him with a glare that pinned him in place more successfully than the actual needles that stuck out from his clothes. “I will not have you hurt this kingdom’s reputation by behaving like a brat.”

“A brat?” a bit of color rose on the Prince’s pale cheeks. “May I remind you that I’m being married, _against my will_ , to some loose bastard I don’t even know? It is not exactly a situation I find delightful!” There was more to be said on the topic, but a pinch of his mother’s nails reminded the Prince of his tone and he clenched his teeth shut, lips flattening into an unhappy line. The Queen rolled her eyes and straightened.

“You will survive. We all do,” the Queen said, then added a thoughtful, “Well, not _all_.” Satisfied, she nodded to the aged tailor, patted the Prince on the head, and left in a flurry of diamond-dusted skirts.

Properly encouraged, the Prince sighed and turned to face the mirrors. He grudgingly admitted the uniform was rather nice; he did not care much for the golden embroidery that curled over his neck and wrists, but the deep-red of the overcoat went quite well with his pale skin. On an unrelated topic, it would also do a sufficient job of hiding blood-stains.

The tailor chose that moment to stick a needle in a place it did not need sticking. The Prince screeched and almost fell off the podium, vengeful thoughts momentarily forgotten.

 

* * *

 

 

How invested the kingdom of Swan was in their Prince's betrothal became rather obvious the minute their caravan came into view of the castle walls. A larger, flashier congregation of nobility and bejeweled livestock had not been seen since the time Queen Katherine, Queen Victoria's younger sister, had visited Mira. Huddled in a dank watchtower, Prince Simon watched fat horses toddle through the castle's gates and hoped this visit will end the same way his aunt's had: with a terrible fight between host and guest, followed by vows of eternal hatred and no further communication on either party's side.

"My lord. You're needed in the Great Hall."

Prince Simon sighed heavily. "Thank you, Edward." Several moments passed. Prince Simon turned away from the window to eye his manservant, who continued to hover at the tower's door. "That will be all."

"My lord, erm, that is..." Edward twisted his fingers in the hem of his shirt - a new shirt, smartly-pressed - and glanced nervously at his prince. "I am to...accompany you, Sire," he finished awkwardly, then cleared his throat for good measure.

Prince Simon narrowed his eyes. "I see." He was on flight watch then, likely on his mother's orders. How embarrassing! More importantly, how inconvenient; how was he to make it out of this God-forsaken wedding with the servants watching his every move?

Grudgingly setting thoughts of escape aside for the moment, Prince Simon stood up. He took the time to dust errant stalks of straw from the seat of his trousers and straighten his robes, then nodded to Edward. "Lead the way."

Edward nodded stiffly. "Yes, Sire." Prince Simon made a note of the sympathetic looks the man threw over his shoulder every other step. Perhaps Edward will not be averse to looking the other way if his prince were to, say, slide a dagger into his betrothed's throat. By accident, of course.

They passed through several hallways on the way to the Great Hall. Most of them were deserted but for a few maids here and there. Prince Simon was less pleased with their reactions, which involved an unnecessary amount of giggling and whispering.

There were three entries to the Great Hall. The guests had arrived through the main doors along a hallway that began at the front gates. Queen Victoria and King John had come in through an overly-ornate door at the other side of the Hall, likely to the sound of trumpets and the fluttering of doves or some such nonsense.

Prince Simon, apparently, was to be smuggled in through the servants' passageway like a common thief.

"So sorry, Sire," Edward stammered as he led the Prince through the crowded kitchens. There were more people in that one room than Simon could recall ever seeing in the entire castle. "We are late, you see, and the Queen was very...vocal about not making a scene, as Her Highness put it..."

Prince Simon narrowly avoided getting ran over by a servant balancing a small mountain of wine glasses. "Yes, fine, whatever," he muttered, scowl firmly in place and likely not to budge for the rest of this evening. Potentially the rest of his life.

Someone pinched his ass.

The Prince let out an undignified yelp and swiveled around. "Who did that!"

About thirty maids, plus Tommy, paused in their various tasks in order to blink innocently at their Prince.

"My Lord?" prompted Marie. Prince Simon tried not to look at her hands too much. Or the sheep carcass the cook was in the process of stuffing with rice. "What's the matter?"

Prince Simon opened his mouth...and then closed it. "Nothing." His ears felt hot. There went the giggling. The Prince glared a nearby maid into silence.

"Sire..." Edward glanced meaningfully toward the back wall, where a door gaped half-open.

"Yes, yes!" Prince Simon stormed past his manservant and through the door, much to Edward's dismay.

"My Lord, please wait! You are to make a quiet entry!"

"I'll make whatever kind of entry I want!" Prince Simon snapped, then promptly sneezed. The passageway was quite dank and dusty, if a bit more spacious than the Prince had expected. He squinted at a fat spider dangling from a nearby pillar, lip curled in disgust.

No matter. Straightening, Prince Simon stomped down the short hallway. Edward hurried after him. His stammered apologies mingled with the music emanating from the Great Hall. The whine of violins set the Prince's teeth on edge.

Prince Simon paused as he reached the passage's end. "Where does this lead?"

"The passage opens behind one of the banners at the back of the Hall, my Lord," panted Edward, clutching his not inconsiderable stomach as he came to a stop beside Prince Simon. Prince Simon thought Edward should probably leave off the sweet tarts.

"Alright." Prince Simon puffed out his chest, preparing to sweep through the tiny doorway in a majestic fashion.

Edward thrust himself forward, successfully barring the way. "Wait, Sire! Let me!" Prince Simon glared. Edward paled but did not budge. The Prince wondered what kind of threats his mother had made to make the man sweat so at the prospect of disobeying her.

"Carry on," he sighed.

"Yes, my Lord! Thank you!" Edward bowed clumsily and pushed through the dark doorway. Light spilled within as the heavy cloth blocking the passageway was lifted. Prince Simon caught a glimpse of brocaded tablecloths and a gaudy dress before Edward let the banner fall back into place.

"Well?" the Prince demanded.

"The guests seem to be congregated at the front of the Hall," Edward said. "My Lord should be able to enter unnoticed."

"Sneak in, you mean." Prince Simon waved Edward's stuttered apology away and took a deep breath. "Let's go." Edward bowed again and swept the cloth aside.

Prince Simon lifted his head high and stepped forward. No matter how upsetting this whole situation was, he was determined to emerge with his dignity.

Perhaps Prince Simon should have been more concerned with the task immediately before him. The servant who attempted to enter the passageway at the same time the Prince tried to exit it certainly should have minded his way, although he could find some excuse in not being able to see over the top of a tray piled high with dirty dishes. In any case, the two collided head-first and made a commotion of the sort that had every person in the near vicinity turning to look.

"So terribly sorry, m'Lord!" quivered the servant.

"Here, Sire, let me have your hand!" begged Edward.

Queen Beatrice threw a barbed, " _That_ is your son?" to Queen Victoria.

Prince Simon, sat amid broken china and scattered cutlery, wondered if it was possible to perish from sheer mortification.

The Prince was eventually pulled to his feet. He regarded the gathered nobility coolly, bowed once, and set off for the nearest servant carrying alcohol. The music resumed to a chorus of sneering laughter.

"Simon," Queen Victoria intoned, materializing between the Prince and a terrified looking servant clutching a bottle of wine.

"Yes, Mother." The Prince tired his best to avoid Queen Victoria's murderous glare and beckoned the servant closer. The man swayed forward, just to draw back with a startled _meep!_ as the Queen snapped the decorative fan she held in one hand shut. The sound echoed fearsomely, the fan itself suddenly seeming more a weapon than an accessory.

"I would like to introduce you to Queen Beatrice," Queen Victoria's smile contained too many teeth to be considered friendly.

Wine and servant beat a hasty retreat, ignoring his Prince's sad stare. Prince Simon sighed and trailed in his mother's wake. The crowd parted around them, powdered women giggling behind fluffy fans while their husbands looked down their (often considerable) noses at the young man passing by. Prince Simon bore it all with a grace beaten into him through years of etiquette lessons, aided by bloody and gruesome thoughts.

"Beatrice, allow me to present our son, Simon de Briar."

Prince Simon bowed stiffly. "Vastly pleased to meet Your Highness."

Queen Beatrice inclined her head. Her delicate features tightened slightly, her gaze growing sharp and cold. Prince Simon tried not to look directly into her eyes. The thought that his sister might have looked like this - cold and cruel and a tiny bit evil - had she survived her childhood made him reassess his opinion regarding dragons.

Then again, growing up heartless certainly beat being eaten alive.

"He will do," Queen Beatrice finally sniffed, adding a sharp, "Not that we have a choice." Prince Simon thought he should probably feel insulted, but found he lacked the will to do so.

Queen Victoria had no such problems. Her polite smile melted into a sneer. Prince Simon felt the temperature in the room drop several degrees. Unwilling to be dragged into a passive-aggressive exchange of insults, Prince Simon floundered for a change of topic.

"My betrothed!" he exclaimed, a tad too loudly. The two Queens broke their telepathic battle to level twin glares at him. "I look forward to... meeting him," the Prince finished. His right hand made an aborted gesture toward his absent sword.

"Yes," Queen Victoria smiled, slow and poisonous. "Where _is_ your son, Beatrice?"

Queen Beatrice drew to her full and inconsiderable height. "James is here," she announced - rather unconvincingly, Prince Simon thought.

"I did not see him come in," pushed Queen Victoria. She had sniffed out a weakness, and was not likely to let go until there was blood.

Queen Beatrice's eyes swept the Hall in what she believed to be a covert gesture. "It is bad luck to see the bride before the wedding," she said.

"A peasant custom," Queen Victoria dismissed. "Furthermore, that only applies the day _of_ the wedding."

"Our customs are different!" Queen Beatrice insisted.

"Your son is not even here, is he!" exclaimed Queen Victoria, sounding equal parts victorious and affronted.

"He is here!" thundered Queen Beatrice. "Perhaps he found this farce too embarrassing to attend, and I would not blame him!"

" _He_ found it embarrassing?" Queen Victoria squealed. "Remind me, whose fault is it that he has no one else to marry?"

The royal-blue dress Queen Beatrice wore seemed to puff up with the woman's anger. Across from her, Queen Victoria hissed, the numerous emeralds decorating her green robes sparkling like scales.

Prince Simon slowly backed away from the two women and the circle of onlookers that had formed around them. When no one stopped him, he backed away some more - right out of the hall. Marie threw a curious, "The party's over already?" after him. Prince Simon waved noncommittally and hightailed it out of the kitchens before Edward - in the process of drinking himself stupid - could notice him.

Prince Simon took the long way around to his rooms. He snuck down dusty hallways, climbed and descended a dozen staircases, all at a pace that had him panting for breath. His legs were shaking by the time he reached his doors. Filled with the exuberance that came with pulling off a successful escape, the Prince giggled madly to himself as he urged the sturdy oak open.

"My Lord?"

"Gah!" The Prince whirled around, eyes scanning the corridor before focusing on the tiny, mousy woman before him. Recognizing her uniform, the Prince relaxed his stance. Just a maid. He cleared his throat. "Yes?"

"I was wondering if my Lord needed his bed made?" the woman said, eyes bouncing from the floor to the Prince's face and back.

The Prince raised an eyebrow. He was certain Edward had already made his bed. It was a part of his responsibility as the Prince's manservant, after all. "No, thank you," he told the woman and turned to go.

"What about the fireplace? It's dirty, isn't it?" The woman surged forward. Prince Simon flinched, pressing his back against the door. "Or perhaps a bath? Would my Lord not like a bath?" She batted her eyelashes hard enough to set the bangs hanging over her eyes fluttering.

Prince Simon blinked in bewilderment. "No, thank you," he repeated, slower this time. Perhaps she had problems with her hearing?

The woman pouted - pouted! - up at him. Prince Simon narrowed his eyes. "But my Lord..."

"I am rather busy," the Prince interjected, cutting through the woman's warbling. "If you do not mind..." he made a shooing gesture.

"Yes?" the woman breathed and fluttered her lashes some more.

Prince Simon glared. "Go away."

The woman dropped her eyes with a sad, "Oh."

Prince Simon harrumphed and turned to enter his quarters. "So it _is_ true," he heard, just before the door closed behind him.

Struck by a terrible thought, the Prince ripped the door open and stuck his head out, ready to demand an explanation. The maid was already a good distance away, however. The sound of footsteps and echoes of, "Prince Simon?" in the near distance had the Prince slamming his doors shut and then locking them for good measure.

The Prince sighed. Suddenly weary beyond reason, he trudged the short distance between the door and his desk and collapsed in a padded chair. Morose thoughts pulled his expression into a frown even as his eyes glinted in anger. Prince Simon had long given up the fancy that his marriage would be anything but a political move on his parents' - correction; on his mother's - side. Still, this was a bit too much. Add the insult of having his fiancée refuse to meet him, and the nightmare was complete.

"Bastard," Prince Simon concluded.

"Now, now," admonished a deep voice, "we haven't even been properly introduced yet."

 Prince Simon jumped, sending the chair tumbling in his haste to turn around. The sight of a tall, darkly-clad man leaning next to an open window had him grinding his teeth. Muscles shifted beneath the man's tunic as he pushed off the wall, green eyes glinting above a smirking mouth. His hair was long, in the style many nobles preferred. Tied back, it fell a bit past the man's wide shoulders.

So this was the errant Prince James. Prince Simon glared up at the man, refusing to feel intimidated.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Prince James grinned in response, teeth glinting against sun-darkened skin. "I like your spark, Princeling." He raised a dark eyebrow, leaning forward to examine Prince Simon's flushed face. "You are Prince Simon, aren't you?"

Nearly apoplectic with rage, Prince Simon snarled, "Yes, I am. You would have known that, had you come to your own engagement ball!"

Prince James tilted his head, expression smoothing. He was a bit unnerving like this, Prince Simon thought - too cold, somehow. "I believe," the man said, "that there has been a misunderstanding."

"What sort of misunderstanding?" asked Prince Simon. He took a step backward, suddenly wary.

Prince James advanced, matching Prince Simon step for step. "You seem to have me mistaken for someone else."

"You are not Prince James," Prince Simon startled as his back hit the wall, the rest of the question emerging a bit high-pitched, "my betrothed?"

"My name is Saran," the man replied, smile wider and toothier than the one that had twisted his lips before. "I'm an assassin."

Prince Simon ducked. Something slammed into the wall where his head had been, the object ringing dully against stone. There was no time to think, no time at all to lament the lack of weapons and guards. Prince Simon darted to the left a breath before the man's large hand could close around his neck and made a break for the door. When a knife whished by his ear to embed in the thick oak, the Prince changed course and dove for the bed some feet away. He had stashed his sword there yesternight, no longer trusting the "Royal Armory" with its upkeep. Rolling beneath the wooden frame, Prince Simon grasped the hilt of his sword and turned to face his attacker.

"Come on," Saran sighed. He waved the short blade he held in his right hand toward the bed that separated him from his quarry. A matching sword hung in a sheath over his right hip. "Really?"

"I will fight until I draw breath!" Prince Simon hissed. Realizing what the man had insinuated, he colored. "And no, not really!"

"You misunderstand again," Saran said, slowly circling the bed. Prince Simon matched him, eyes on the man's hands. He still missed the moment when Saran drew a dagger, but was at least able to duck out of the way before it could tear into his shoulder. "I do not mean to kill you."

"Could have fooled me," Prince Simon swiveled in time to evade a thrust of the man's sword. The action imbalanced him slightly. He stumbled backward as Saran jumped on the bed and charged forward, awkwardly parrying the larger man's attacks.

"Truly," Saran said between swipes of his glinting blade, "I do not." He fainted a right and struck left. The Prince was able to meet his blow - an impressive feat that nonetheless left his right side wide open. The Prince groaned as the hilt of Saran's second sword collided with his temple, and was silent.

Saran caught the Prince's body when it fell forward, green eyes narrowing over a cheerless smile. "Well, not yet at any rate."

The assassin deposited the Prince's insensate body on the bed. A thin cover and a bit of rope, and Prince Simon was safely disguised as a rather fashionable sack of potatoes. Shouldering the royal burden, Saran swung over the sill of the opened window, grabbed a rope hooked through a stone gargoyle, and proceeded to scale three stories down the castle's wall.

A quiet whistle had a silver-gray horse grazing nearby trotting forward. Saran shrugged the Prince onto the horse and mounted himself. He patted the animal's muscled neck and urged it forward, through the castle's open gates. A young man fishing near the castle's sorry excuse for a moat lifted a hand in greeting as Saran rode overhead. The assassin waved back, cheerful. Truly, Mira's security was abysmal. They deserved to have their royalty stolen from beneath their noses.


	3. Chapter 3

Prince James whistled to himself as he made his way into the castle courtyard.  A soft-brown horse trotted at his side. Prince James kept one hand on its reins and the other gripping a wet burlap sack. The closer he came to the palace, the more audible the sound of forced revelry became. Prince James' steps slowed and slowed until he was finally still. His expression was one often found on men facing the hangman's noose.

"Maybe I can drown in the moat. What do you think, Bella?" The horse snorted. Prince James sighed and resumed his forward march with great and obvious reluctance.

"Let's find you a stable," the Prince muttered, "and me some wine." Preferably a barrel. He'd need at least that much to make it through the night.

A sudden commotion tore Prince James from his morbid sulking. Voices echoed against stone, growing nearer right along with the metallic clang of drawn swords. Prince James dropped both Bella's reins and his soggy burden and drew the shortblade that hung at his waist. Two sharp whistles had Bella retreating behind her master. The mare's hooves beat uneasily at the ground.

The armed party broke out into the open. Narrowed blue eyes swept over the assembled knights before widening with recognition. Familiar faces stared back at him from beneath helmets painted in atrocious blue.

"Why, Gustav, what is the matter?"

The large, sweaty man at the group's front let out a booming, "My Lord!" Some more jingling and grunting followed as the knights sheathed their weapons and waddled closer. Prince James watched them struggle against gravity at each step and thought it might be prudent to invest in better armor for the Royal Guard. There were certain things that simply did not get better with age. Iron was certainly one of them.

Gustav halted an appropriate distance away from his Liege and took several deep, labored breaths. "The castle is under attack, my Lord!"

Prince James looked around the empty courtyard. "Is it, now."

"Well," Sir Kristoff amended, "Maybe not on a _large_ scale."

"How many intruders?" Prince James asked. The knights looked at each other, then at the ground. Prince James bit down a sigh. "Are there any victims?" he tried again.

Sir Gustav brightened, pleased to have an answer. "One confirmed, Sire!" Sir Dimmons elbowed him meaningfully. The resulting clang was far from subtle. Prince James narrowed his eyes.

"Who?"

Sir Gustav cleared his throat. The other knights suddenly found the landscape fascinating.

"I order you to speak," the Prince demanded.

"Erm-" Sir Gustav gurgled,

"That is-" Sir Kristoff stalled,

"Maybe Your Highness should-" Sir Dimmons stammered at the ground.

A sharp, repeated tak-tak- _tak_ joined the frazzled muttering. The irritation swelling in Prince James' head melted away under a sudden burst of anxious fear. The prince threw a wild-eyed stare toward the castle. The knights quieted.

"James."

Prince James swallowed and held very, very still.

Queen Beatrice's heels stabbed the ground, the pitiful whine of the marble floor steadily rising in pitch. The knights quickly shuffled away, allowing the Prince a clear view of his mother advancing on him. The Queen was flanked by her own guards. Her frilly dress and feathered curls bounced with each step. Her eyes blazed.

"Where have you been?" Prince James opened his mouth. Queen Beatrice flicked her hand, nails glinting. "Quiet." Prince James' teeth clacked together. "You will be _quiet_ , and you will do exactly as you are told. There is still hope of salvaging this forsaken situation."

The Queen whirled around and stalked back toward the castle. Her guards fell in step behind her. The knights shuffled forward, armor clanking. Prince James turned yearning eyes toward Bella and considered abdicating the crown on the spot.

"JAMES!"

The victim of this mysterious attack, Prince James thought grimly, was one lucky bastard.

 

* * *

 

Prince Simon did not so much as wake as shake aware. His room was cold and his bed was hard and something vicious roared in his head. Perhaps it was the dragon that had taken his sister. Prince Simon blearily compared the pros and cons of being carried away by a giant, winged lizard. There was the whole getting eaten alive thing but really, was that so much worse than what the rest of his life was shaping out to be?

"Just make it fast," the Prince muttered to the shadow looming over him.

"Boy, you've got issues."

It took a moment for the deep, sarcastic voice to register. Several more passed as the Prince's rather bruised head tried to connect it to a face.

Brown eyes snapped open.

"Good evening," Saran-the-assassin smiled. "Had a good nap?"

Prince Simon lurched upward, hands straining for his captor's neck. Only his arms would not obey him and then the ground was rushing at him awfully fast. Prince Simon managed to angle his body so his side rather than face bore the brunt of gravity's wrath. He still ended up with dirt in his mouth.

Saran chuckled. "Need a hand?"

"Untie me," Prince Simon spat.

"Yeah, that's not how kidnapping works, kid."

"I am a prince, you lowlife basta- _oof_."

Saran ground his heel deeper into the prince's back, right above where the prince's hands lay bound. Prince Simon clamped his teeth over a pained sob. A small whimper still escaped him, torn free as his tender stomach was forced against the hard ground.

"Ready to be civil?" Saran asked evenly. Prince Simon nodded, throat tight with shame. Saran stepped aside. Prince Simon rolled on his back, awkwardly maneuvering to a sitting position. He did not dare attempt to stand. Even if Saran allowed it, the Prince's own legs might fail him. Still, to be sitting at the feet of this man like a _dog_ -

Prince Simon's hands clenched, nails biting into his palms.

"Where are we?"

"Far, far away."

Brown eyes flicked up to the assassin's grinning face before turning back to examining their surroundings. There was not  much to see: stone everywhere, glowing gold with the light of a small fire. Shadows hung heavy beyond the circle of warmth. Wind wailed in the distance, the sound muffled. The air they breathed was heavy and tasted stale. Prince Simon concluded that they were in a cave, and a rather deep one at that. His kidnapper had taken them north. To the mountains.

Prince Simon glanced at Saran. The man knelt by the fire, examining the pair of rabbits roasting above the greedy flames. His eyes glinted. Once Saran noticed the Prince's attention, so did his teeth.

"Hungry, Simon?"

Prince Simon pressed his lips over an angry demand to be called by his title. His crown meant nothing to this man. "Yes." Simon he was, and so he would be until this nightmare ended. A man like any other.

"Good. Now, I'm going to  free your hands. You make life hard for me, I make breathing difficult for you. Get me?" Simon nodded. Saran's grin stretched.

"Turn around."

Simon hesitated briefly before obeying. Footsteps echoed behind him, purposefully loud. Simon's shoulders stiffened. The vulnerability of his position rankled, left him equal parts afraid and angry.

"Terrible, isn't it?" Saran muttered, too close. "Being at someone else's mercy."

Simon bowed his head. "What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing. Hold still." Steel slid against Simon's sore wrists. The angle was awkward and the rope thick. Saran worked patiently, angling the dagger away from Simon's skin. He stepped away as soon as the rope loosened enough for Simon to pull his hands free. Simon cradled them in his lap. Thick, purple bruises twisted around his wrists. They hurt worse with the rope gone. A careful prod at his sore temple had flecks of dried blood dusting Simon's fingertips. Simon wondered if the wound was bad enough to leave a scar. The thought of bearing a physical reminder of this nightmare for his entire life had Simon's stomach lurching sickly.

"Here."

Saran's voice came from much closer than Simon had expected. Simon flinched away. The sudden movement pulled at his bruised stomach and Simon winced. The assassin's brows came together briefly.

"Dinner."

Simon nodded. The rabbit had already been skinned and decapitated. It did not make picking its corpse that much easier to stomach, but Simon was hungry. He knew he should be grateful that he was getting anything to eat at all. "Thank you," he forced out.

Saran took a seat across the fire, a good distance away but still well within reach. He watched Simon eat for a while. Simon tried not to be too flustered over the attention.

A derisive snort had Simon's hackles raising. "What?" he grumbled.

"You eat so...prissy."

Simon pinched another bit of flesh from the rabbit and brought it to his mouth. Saran followed the motion with his eyes. Simon swallowed. The air had grown stuffy, too-warm. "How do _you_ eat, then?"

Saran bit a chunk out of his own rabbit, teeth flashing, jaw unhinging over the animal's corpse. Simon stared, food forgotten. That was so- so-

Saran chewed his mouthful, eyes on Simon. He raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

"Barbaric!" Simon grumbled. Saran laughed, mouth full, lips glistening with grease. Simon looked away, focusing on his own dinner.

"Eat up, princeling. Long day tomorrow."

Simon ate, pushing thoughts of oncoming hardships away. He had to keep going. He would survive. His sister was already lost; the damn mountain was not taking him, too.

 

* * *

 

There were hearts stitched in the tablecloth.

Prince James traced the nearest one, seeking distraction from the mismatched orchestra of voices vying for attention all around him. The heart was like all the rest - small, lopsided, and blue. Gold stitches outlined it. The silk yarn warmed under Prince James' fingers until it felt strangely like skin.

"Ridiculous," King Alfred puffed.

Prince James snatched his hand away. He glanced at a nearby clock; ten minutes on the dot since the last time his father had spoken. Prince James bet it would be ten more until King Alfred graced those present with another word of wisdom. The King had grown rather fond of rituals in recent years. He had also gained a propensity for monologues on a select group of topics, which had in turn led the castle staff to acquire an admirable level of stealth. There was, unfortunately, a learning curve. Early slips in vigilance had left Prince James with a wealth of knowledge about wine-making and berry-picking he had absolutely no idea what to do with.  

"Thank you, Alfred." Queen Beatrice smiled tightly at her husband. King Alfred hastily buried his nose in his goblet.

Prince James sat straighter in his chair and attempted to focus on the proceedings. The frantic excitement that had sent guests scrambling for carriages and guards jumping at shadows had waned. A quiet, vicious, _helpless_ anger gradually took its place. Prince James had the dubious pleasure of witnessing Queen Victoria interrogate her staff. A good number lost their jobs, including a pouch-bellied man by the name of Edward. Prince James had nodded with approval as the sobbing mess of a man was dragged out of the room. No manservant worth his salt would choose drunken revelry over attending to his Liege.

A hurried investigation revealed several alarming facts. First, Mira's security was so lacking it was practically in the negative. Most of the guards Prince James had seen walking the halls upon entering the castle were outsiders hired for the occasion. The lot of them did not even know how Prince Simon looked, let alone when or how he had been removed from the premises.

The sorry state of Prince Simon's rooms confirmed that the young prince had indeed been abducted. Rather violently too, judging by the slashed bedding and scratched walls. Prince James had felt the first stirrings of unease at the sight. He had been operating under the assumption that his fiancé had done a runner and Queen Victoria was trying to save face. If the boy was in fact in danger...

Prince James watched Queen Victoria tap her nails over a map of Mira. Guilt gnawed at his insides. Prince Simon would not have been alone in his rooms had his betrothed been present at the ball. The unknown assailant would have certainly found Prince James a tougher opponent than the slight, scrawny thing portraits had revealed Prince Simon to be.

"What could they possibly want?" King John wondered for the seventh time in half as many hours. Even the attendants were ignoring him at this point.

The question tugged at something in Prince James' mind. No ransom note had been discovered. No demands for money - no threats or vows of revenge. Prince James swallowed heavily. _What could they possibly want, indeed_.

"We need to gather a search party immediately."

The words rang loud in the tense silence. All eyes in the room turned to Prince James.

"My Lord," one of the hired knights offered hesitantly, "No demands have been made. We have no clear direction, Sire, and not enough men to cover all possible routes the criminal could have taken."

"We don't even know what the bastard looks like," Sir Geoffrey growled.

Heat climbed Prince James' stubbled cheeks.

"About that. I might have seen someone suspicious as I..." the blush burned brighter, "....prepared to meet my betrothed."

Queen Beatrice buried her face in her hands, smothering a heartfelt curse. Queen Victoria had grown as still as a statue. Prince James valiantly tried to hold her eyes.

"Do you believe my son's life is in danger, Prince James?"

Prince James nodded once. Queen Victoria regarded him through narrowed eyes, gauging. "You will lead the search party," she said. It was not a question - something Queen Beatrice seemed ready to protest, judging by the tight curl of her lips.

"Yes," Prince James said, ignoring his mother's hissed, _James!_ "It is my duty."

Queen Victoria held him pinned with her gaze for a moment longer before shifting her attention to a nearby attendant. "Have a painter brought in. Prince James, if you will oblige us with a description of the man you saw." Prince James nodded. "A sketch will be produced and a reward posted. That should restrict their movements. You will ride out tomorrow." 

"My Lord-" Sir Geoffrey protested.

"It is too dangerous!" Queen Beatrice cried out.

Prince James thought of the tales of brave knights he had read well past the age fairy tales were acceptable literature, thought of the gray drag of days spent in a citadel of stone with the occasional bat as his only adversary. He thought of the bloodstain on Prince Simon's floor.

"Yes," he said. A quiet, anxious excitement bloomed in his chest.

 _Adventure._ At last.

And all it took was getting engaged to a man. Who would have thought.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my take on Romantic Comedy, you guys :D


End file.
